The visitors were leaving at that time. Praskovya Fyodorovna was seeing them out. She heard something fall, and came in.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, I dropped something by accident.”
She went out, brought a candle. He was lying, breathing hard and fast, like a man who has run a mile, and staring with fixed eyes at her.
“What is it, Jean?”
“No—othing, I say. I dropped something.”—“Why speak? She won’t understand,” he thought.
She certainly did not understand. She picked up the candle, lighted it for him, and went out hastily. She had to say goodbye to a departing guest. When she came back, he was lying in the same position on his back, looking upwards.
“How are you—worse?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head, sat down.
“Do you know what, Jean? I wonder if we hadn’t better send for Leshtchetitsky to see you here?”
This meant calling in the celebrated doctor, regardless of expense. He smiled malignantly, and said no. She sat a moment longer, went up to him, and kissed him on the forehead.
He hated her with all the force of his soul when she was kissing him, and had to make an effort not to push her away.
“Good night. Please God, you’ll sleep.”